


Anything Hurts Less Than the Quiet

by WreakingHavok



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Car Accidents, Death, Gen, It was an english project and I had an excuse to write, Mark misses his roommate, This Is Sad, actually no this is trash, but hey, mark is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 04:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15744528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/pseuds/WreakingHavok
Summary: “I’ve had a lot of time already. I can do this. I should be able to do this.”“That doesn’t mean you’re okay, or that you’re up to it,” Ethan says quietly. “It’s okay, Mark.”No, no. It’s not. It is anything but okay.“You don’t get it,” he says, trying to keep his voice down. “It’s absolute hell at home. I can’t even turn around without seeing something that makes me want to cry, and I can’t –”Ethan’s hands move from his arm and wrap around his waist, the boy leaning against him and folding him in a hug. Mark starts bouncing his leg again.“It’s too quiet,” he mumbles into his hands. “I hate it so much.”Or,Mark goes to hang out with Ethan and Tyler in the aftermath of losing his best friend. College AU.





	Anything Hurts Less Than the Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> This was an English project! I decided to post it, idk if that was a good idea. It's probably OOC as I didn't write this to be fanfic.  
> Please tell me what you think!

The apartment is too quiet.

The empty room echoes with the sound of Mark tapping his fingers against his phone screen, mocking him as his fingernails occasionally click against the glass. He bounces his leg up and down from his seated position on his couch, shaking his whole body, but he doesn’t notice or care. His eyes are fixated on his phone, where an exciting game of Jetpack Joyride flies by so fast he can barely keep up. Every time the small, jetpack adorned man comes crashing down to the floor – which is too many times, in Mark’s opinion – he looks up quickly at the clock hanging on the wall in front of him, eyes scanning the time and then dropping back down to the start of another game.

He’s been doing this for fifteen minutes, sitting on the couch with his shoes on and his coat weighing heavily on his shoulders, keys resting in his pocket, ready to go.

He’s been doing this since one o’clock. He doesn’t have to leave until one-thirty.

Barry crashes again, and Mark breathes out in frustration, sinking back into the couch cushions.

The springs creak. The clock ticks. His keys jangle in his pocket as he lets his hand fall onto his lap.

It’s too quiet.

This isn’t how things are supposed to be. Things are supposed to be louder, brighter. 

If things were how they were supposed to be, Mark would just be finishing lunch, and someone would be laughing at him for finishing an assignment so close to the due date, and someone would be tossing him his keys and his jacket as he pulled on his shoes on the way out the door.

If things were how they were supposed to be, Jack would be sitting next to him, all bright smiles and green-tipped hair, his loud Irish exchange student accent ringing through the halls and causing the neighbors to file noise complaints. 

If Jack were here, Mark wouldn’t be sitting on the couch alone, ready to leave thirty minutes early.

But Jack isn’t there. He never will be again. Mark had visited him in the hospital, right after the crash, and the doctors had let him know in quiet whispers that Jack was probably going to die tomorrow. 

The next day, Mark got the call, and knew that nothing was ever going to be the way it was supposed to be again.

He looks up at the clock again, the hands ticking in a constant rhythm, and the noise drills into his skull, a constant headache that’s been building up ever since the day Mark came home from the hospital alone.

The apartment is quiet, and there’s a pair of Jack’s socks lying discarded on the floor that he can’t bring himself to pick up, and Jack’s coat lies forgotten on the armrest of the couch -

Mark can’t take it anymore.

It’s not one-thirty yet, he knows, but he flies out of the house anyway, slamming the door and just barely remembering to lock it behind him. The drive to the theater is automatic, and he doesn’t really remember anything from it, his brain foggy with the sudden urge to scream and cry and throw something. He’s shaking as he parks the car, opening the door and stepping out into the cool air. 

He plasters a smile on his face and locks his car, walking towards the movie theater. Every step echoes in his ears like a gunshot, the world around him slightly muffled, but at least there’s noise. There’s the bang of a car door, there’s a small child’s excited voice that filters up through the muted cloud of the world around him, there’s the beep of his car locking. He keeps walking.

Before he knows it, he’s pulling open the theater door with his ticket in his hand, and the world rushes back into startling clarity as his friends run up to him.

“There you are,” Ethan grins, pulling Mark’s arm, dragging him over to sit on a bench in the lobby. “We’ve been waiting forever.” 

“We told him one-thirty,” Tyler says dryly, a hint of a grin on his face. “He’s early.”

Mark smiles thinly, trying to think of a remark to return. 

He can’t, and there’s an uncomfortable silence as he sits there, Ethan still holding his arm, Tyler standing over both of them, waiting for him to say something, to prove that he’s okay.

“Sorry,” he ends up saying, and Ethan frowns. The blue-haired boy turns to look pointedly at Tyler, a look that Mark pretends not to see, and the taller man clears his throat.

“I’m gonna go get us some popcorn,” he says, a little louder than necessary. He walks away, and Mark’s eyes follow him all the way to the concession line. He knows what’s coming. 

“Mark,” Ethan says from beside him, and holds his arm a little tighter. “Are you okay?”

Yep, there it is. Mark opens his mouth to answer, then stops. Is he okay? He doesn’t know. 

“You said – you said on the phone that you were up to this, but if you still need some time -”

“No,” Mark says, cutting Ethan off, and it comes out sharper than he wanted it to. Ethan flinches backwards almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to make guilt rise up in Mark’s stomach. “No,” he repeats, trying to be softer. “I’ve had a lot of time already. I can do this. I should be able to do this.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re okay, or that you’re up to it,” Ethan says quietly. “It’s okay, Mark.”

No, no. It’s not. It is anything but okay.

Mark’s head hurts. “You don’t get it,” he says, trying to keep his voice down. “It’s absolute hell at home. I can’t even turn around without seeing something that makes me want to cry, and I can’t –”

Mark cuts off with an odd choking noise that rips from his throat and hurts. He puts his head in his hands, not wanting to see Ethan’s face, for fear of what he’ll see there.

Ethan’s hands move from his arm and wrap around his waist, the boy leaning against him and folding him in a hug. Mark starts bouncing his leg again.

“It’s too quiet,” he mumbles into his hands. “I hate it so much.”

Ethan brings one hand up to rub his back comfortingly, the heel of his palm catching on Mark’s jacket, and it’s real, and it’s exactly what Jack used to do when Mark would panic about his coursework.

He can feel himself starting to tear up, and he doesn’t want to do that – one peek between his fingers let him know that there are people staring at him, giving him odd or sympathetic looks from across the room.

“It’s okay,” Ethan says, his own voice choked up. “I miss him too.”

Later, Mark will look back on this as one of the best moments of his life. He’ll look at it as the day he started turning to his friends for help instead of wallowing in his own grief, the day he finally began to move on. He’ll turn back the calendar, beaming proudly, and say, “Look. Look at how far I’ve come.”

Now, Mark breaks down on a bench in the lobby of a movie theater with his friends by his side, and the world still feels like it’s crumbling down, but Jack doesn’t seem so far away anymore, and as Ethan keeps rubbing his back he can almost pretend it’s still him.


End file.
